Legacy
by coffee shop poet
Summary: With Bruce Wayne gone, his mantle has been passed to John Blake. Alfred realizes how much help he will need and sends his daughter, Julia Remarque, to serve as his only confidant...
1. 1: Arrival in Gotham

There's a storm brewing overhead. Thick, black clouds roll over the cityscape and cover the higher buildings in the descending fog. I glance up at the sky, grimacing as I realize how close it's getting. I've been trying to outrun those menacing clouds ever since I got off the plane earlier this morning. They've chased me all the way out here, to Wayne Manor, eager to spill out on me while I'm stuck outside waiting for someone to answer the door.

I rap my knuckles harder against the old, weatherworn mahogany. The echoes of my knock filter through what seems to be an empty house. Discouraged, I back away from the porch and flop down on my suitcase, situated just a few steps away. My father's letter lies crumpled at the bottom of my pocket, moving with me. I can feel the sharp folded edges poke against my hip as I sit down. Maybe he knows what I'm doing here – I surely don't. It's only been a few days since I got it in the mail, half-crushed and stained with greasy fingerprints. I'd opened it and read it on Monday morning, over breakfast in England, and now here I am – one day and two plane tickets later. At least the weather isn't very different from the perpetual London fog.

Maybe I didn't think this through as well as I could have. I'm sitting on the front steps of a manor that may very well be abandoned, waiting for someone to appear that may not even exist, while a nasty looking storm rolls in. Father seemed convinced that I should go, that there would be opportunities for me that I didn't exist in London. He told me that I had the chance to continue a very important legacy – that of the Pennyworth family. Technically, I'm a Remarque, and he addressed this very small technicality in the letter – but I'm his only descendent. _You have inherited a great honor, my dear Julia._

It's starting to rain. I look up at the sky as it opens up and drops a flood down on my head.

"Brilliant," I mutter petulantly, searching for a hood on my woolen parka but finding none. Then I remember I packed my raincoat in my suitcase, along with my best wellies. It'd be useless to open it up now in this miserable downpour and get all my other things wet. So I bite my tongue, cross my arms over my chest, and resign myself to being soaked through and through.

I hear something rustling behind me.

And it occurs to me, for the first time, that I might have put myself in a bad situation.

If the manor really is abandoned, then I'm alone. There's no telling what sort of wild animals could be prowling about, looking for food, and I'm by myself in a strange place. I can't even bring myself to think about the possibility of other prowlers. A shiver runs through me, and it's not from the cold.

"What are you doing here?" A voice comes from behind me. "This is private property."

I nearly upset my suitcase as I bound away from it, turning around to face my attacker. He's not all that imposing. Not very tall, though taller than me, and thin as whipcord. I could take him on, if he got any bright ideas.

"Stay back!" I warn him. "I have mace…I know how to use it!"

His stern expression melts away, turning instead to one of amusement. His dark eyes crinkle, disappearing almost entirely, and the lines in his face begin to soften. "There's really no need for that. I'm more of a lover than a fighter."

"I don't care who or what you are!" I start digging in my purse, but it proves rather hard to find anything with my hands shaking so hard. "You lay one hand on me and you _will _lose it."

"If anyone should lose a hand around here, it's you," he replies, very matter of fact. "You're breaking the law."

"Right, and I suppose scaring the ever living daylights out of strange women isn't breaking the law in Gotham."

"Actually, it is. Intimidation is a misdemeanor in most jurisdictions."

The rummaging in my purse stops. It grows so quiet between the two of us that the rain becomes the only discernable noise for miles around.

"You speak fuzz?"

He inclines his head a little. "Sorry?"

"Fuzz. You know, the pigs, the big five-o…" I say. "You don't have police?"

"Look, this has been amusing and all, but I need you to tell me what you're doing here."

I take my hand out of my bag. It seems as though he has no immediate plans to hurt me. "Yes, of course…I'm here to see the master of this manor, but it seems like no one lives here anymore."

He peers over my head, staring at the house for a moment, then fixes his eyes back on me. There's a hint of something in them now, clouding their dark warmth with winding strands of ice – is that fear? "It's been abandoned for a couple of weeks."

"Really now? Well, that is strange. You see, my father told me I would find it very much occupied when I got here."

"Your father?"

"Yes. Alfred Pennyworth," I tell him. "He served the last master of this house before the man supposedly disappeared."

He looks unconvinced. "Maybe we should discuss this in my car."

"Are you loony?" My voice raises a few octaves. I have half a mind to start looking for my mace again. "I'm not getting in any car with you!"

"You can trust me."

"Those sound an awful lot like famous last words, sir."

"I promise, I won't hurt you," he laughs a little, holding out his hands in surrender - to show me there's nothing in them, no cruel looking instruments of torture. Not even a knife, the typical weapon of a hardened criminal. "You English girls sure are flighty."

"If being careful is flighty, then so be it!"

He changes his tone, dropping the playful timbre that runs through it. "I swear on my life."

"I'd rather speak to you out in the open, where there's enough room to run away if you get any bright ideas."

"It's raining-"

"A little rain never hurt anyone."

He puts his hands down. The raging torrent has let up a little, but we're still dripping wet. It seeps through his hair, the current swift and sure. "Fine. You don't trust me and you're smart not to. But can I at least see your father's letter?"

It seems a fair enough request. Besides, he might even know about what happened here, where I need to go to find this mysterious new occupant of Wayne Mano, or if he even exists at all. As much as I don't trust this man, I need his information more. He's a local – knows all the stories, the people, everything I need to know to sort this situation out. Maybe he can help…

"Yeah, all right." I point to a tree nearby with thick boughs, so heavy with rain that they scrape the soggy ground. "You can read it under there, so the ink doesn't run."

He gestures his arm toward the spot. "You first."

I watch him as I lead the way, my entire body taut with vigilance. "I could still beat the ever living shit out of you, you know."

He's laughing again, harder than before, though I don't see what's so funny about my threats. They are genuine. If he knew me, he'd be very much aware of the fact that I am no one to be trifled with, even if I am on the smaller side. "I don't doubt your abilities."

Once underneath the protection of the willow tree, I take out my letter and give it to him. He's a fast reader. His eyes skim across the page, taking in every word, and with each passing second his face grows more grim. It has stopped raining. It no longer filters through the trees, beating down on the leaning branches as it tries to reach us beneath their cover. A wet, heavy silence hangs over us. The storm has lifted...for now.

He folds the letter back in place, staring off at piece of earth in deep concentration. At last, he looks at me, determination carving deep lines back into his face.

"If Alfred Pennyworth has sent you, and it looks as though he has…"

Our eyes meet as he hands the letter back, pushing it gently into my waiting hands.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

"Then you're looking for me, Miss Remarque."

* * *

a/n: I decided to make _Scars_ a one shot and start this. I hope you don't mind too much...

disclaimer - i don't own john blake. he belongs to nolan and dc comics.


	2. 2: Blake's Proposal

He tells me his name – John Blake. Plain, stern-faced John who only looks his age when he smiles.

I figure I have some reason to trust him, at least enough to let my walls down and listen to what he has to say. If anything, an explanation is needed. How does he know my father? And if he _is_ the man in the letter, then why does he need my help? Curiosity gets the better of me, and I let him lead me back to his car. I try to remember where I put my pepper spray as we walk across the gravel, the pebbles crunching beneath our feet. Just in case this guy turns out to be a creep who lies to poor, stranded women just to get them back to his apartment, I don't want to be caught unaware.

Or, I could always resort to ass-kicking, make good on the threat I'd made before.

He cranks up the heater when we get in. The car sort of rumbles idly for a while as he looks me over, slowly and carefully, and decides to hand me his jacket. That's when I notice I'm shivering.

"I'll be all right, thanks," I tell him, sticking my hands up against the hot vents. "Just drive. I can take care of myself."

We back out of the driveway, leaving the manor altogether. I watch it in the rearview mirror as the estate disappears, entirely, behind a thicket of overgrown trees.

"It's almost sad…" I trail off, still staring off into the lush wilderness behind us.

"What is?" Blake asks as he turns onto the main drive.

"Such a beautiful house, left to rot," I let out a mournful sigh and tear my eyes away from the lonely, forgotten property. "It should at least be sold, so it can be enjoyed by a new family."

"Don't feel too sorry for it," he assures me. "Its previous owner, Bruce Wayne, gave it up to the city before he disappeared. The manor's going to be turned into a boy's home."

My brow furrows at the news. No one told me _that. _Father never mentioned it once in his letter, though he was more occupied with my finding the house than learning anything of its fate. Perhaps he thought knowing too much about it might have driven me away. Still, it might've been nice to have been made aware…

"That is good news." I reply, and lean back in my seat as the first Gotham skyscraper rises up before us.

.

* * *

.

His apartment is small, but tidy.

Much of that could be attributed to the fact that there's barely any furniture. An old armchair makes up the bulk of the fixtures, but even it looks as though it's in the beginning stages of falling completely apart. There's no television set to be found, but a compact radio sits on the windowsill next to a wrought iron table streaked with bright scarlet rust. Stacks of papers are neatly situated here and there – on the table, on a writing desk situated toward the back of the room, nestled neatly into its corner. Even the kitchen countertop has its own stack, less orderly than the rest. With so few counter space, I wonder why he didn't keep the last pile of papers on an end table that I spot peeking out from behind a protruding half wall. That is, until I see yet _another_ mass of paperwork occupies the space there as well.

I survey the wretched place with something akin to concern. It really is a miracle that the apartment hasn't caved in around him yet, though it certainly looks like it's about to. He appears quite comfortable moving around in it, dumping his keys on the wrought iron table and rounding another half wall so that he enters the cramped kitchen.

"Nice place." I try to sound polite, though I'm sure an edge of sarcasm wriggled its way in.

He must have heard it. "It's all I can afford on a beat cop salary."

"So you _are _the fuzz."

"I prefer the term _police officer._" He shrugs, casting an almost boyishly ill-tempered glance in my direction as he fills a kettle with water. "But you know, whatever suits you."

I continue to have a look around as he sets the kettle to boil and gathers a few cups from his cupboards. He's quite clean for a single man living on his own. There's no indication of a woman's presence in the room. No artwork hanging on the walls, no pastels or curtains to be found. It's altogether cold and impersonal, with an air of mystery tucked away behind slouching bookcases and dilapitated arm chairs. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something about John Blake that he keeps hidden from the world. He either doesn't know about it himself – or is very good at carrying the burden of pretense.

"So," he says, startling me out of my thoughts. "Are you still having trust issues? Or am I allowed to offer you tea?"

"Only if you take some."

"I don't drink tea."

"Then why did you make it?"

He looks sheepish. "Well, you're British…I figured it'd be polite."

"Stereotypical, but it's a nice gesture," I shrug lightly. "I'll take some if you do. I don't know if it's poisoned or not."

"So…yes on the trust issues." He returns to the kitchen. "Go ahead and sit down. We have a lot to discuss."

I meet him at his table, sitting carefully as I'm still not sure about the state of his chairs. He flops down into one, confident enough that it won't disintegrate into a pile of rust underneath him. His demeanor comforts me some, assuring me that I'm at least not sitting in a death trap.

He moves the papers to the nearest corner so we have at least some space to move around.

"Can I see your father's letter again?"

"You have some explaining to do first."

He folds his hands in front of him and they frame his steaming mug. "All right," he says. "What do you want to know first?"

"How do you know my father?"

"Alfred Pennyworth…he was Bruce Wayne's butler."

"Even I knew that," I say, impatient with his obvious sidestepping. "What I want to know is _why _he wanted me to seek you out. You must have some connection with him that goes deeper than acquaintance."

He doesn't blink as he answers, a very stern, guarded expression plastered over his face like a mask. "He wanted me to sort out Wayne's affairs."

"So why do you need my help doing that?"

Blake shrugs and the mask seems to fall. "I don't know…maybe they're difficult to handle and he thought, perhaps, I'd need assistance."

"Not good enough," I snap. "Tell me what you're hiding."

He opens his hands. "I'm not hiding anything. I promise."

"You promise an awful lot, Officer Blake."

"And you're pretty nosy for an outsider." He remarks pointedly.

A fair shot, I have to say. I guess prying isn't exactly the best way to go about digging whatever it is he's hiding out of him. Taking in a long, cleansing breath, I try to calm down and reign in the curiosity that's eating me alive on the inside. He trusts me about as much as I trust him – and that's not a lot.

"Fine, fine," I say at last. "You're right, I'm nosy. But, consider my situation. I took two planes to get here, only to find out the plane couldn't land at Gotham Airport because of some ruddy occupation that took place a month ago. I had to catch a bus to reach the city, pass through a hell of a lot of customs, and have been manhandled quite enough to last me the rest of my life. Now, seeing as I've come all this way, I'd like _not _to find out that I let myself be groped by strange men for nothing."

He smiles and his eyes almost disappear, black slits embedded in his pale skin. "That does sound unpleasant."

"You have no idea, really."

Sighing, he begins to fiddle with an ink pen, turning it around and around in his fingers. He seems to be thinking things through, weighing each thought in his head, so I try to be patient. It takes a lot of inner strength to stay quiet and keep my temper.

"I'm not quite sure myself, about what I'm supposed to do," he starts. "All I know is that I need to find a man named O. I don't have any more information other than he's old and Chinese."

"That doesn't seem so hard," I reply. "Can't you ask around?"

"Here's where it gets tricky." He says. "I can't be seen."

Here's where my heart starts to sink. Oh good lord, he's a notorious rapist, or some other kind of hardened, merciless criminal with a fondness for knives. Part of me wants to spray him in the eyes with mace and run out of the apartment screaming. But curiosity reigns me in, sits me down, and settles me enough so that I sit there and try to swallow past the panic building in my throat.

"Can't be…_seen?"_

"Yeah…you see, that's part of the deal. Mr. Wayne wrote to me himself. He wants me to lie low while I try to find this O guy."

"What's the point of that?"

He shakes his head. "I have no idea. The whole thing is very hush hush. I wouldn't be doing it if it weren't for the fact that Mr. Wayne was a good man and I trust his judgement."

There's a moment of silence between us. We're both trying to sort through what little information we've been given and figure out where we fit in. It's all very awkward. I'm still trying to decipher just what it is my father wants from me. Meanwhile, across from me, Blake is endeavoring to make sense of Mr. Wayne's demands.

"So…I assume you want _me _to find this O bloke?"

"Really? Would you?" A wide grin makes his eyes crinkle up again. "I'd even try to find a way to pay you for the help, seeing as you need a place to stay and…well, you need money for rent."

"On a beat cop salary?" I gesture to the apartment. "Doesn't seem like you could afford it."

"I'm sure we can figure something out."

My eyes narrow as I stare at him, trying to find the weak spot in his very well played game. "I still don't trust you."

"And I don't trust you," he replies. "I guess that makes us even."

.

* * *

.

I excuse myself to the bathroom and leave him in the kitchen. He points me in the right direction – _go straight, take a right and there you are – _and here I am, standing in front of the mirror, staring back at my own reflection.

Days of long, exhausting travel have left its mark. Perhaps it's only the awful lighting, but I seem to have aged years since leaving London. Heavy shadows hollow out my eyes, lines like parenthesis stretch around my mouth. Even my natural English pallor has deepened, losing its glow and taking on that sort of wan absence of color instead. The natural rosy blush has gone from my cheeks.

I run my fingers over a particularly deep line in my forehead. The price of conversing with mysterious strangers, I suppose. I bite my tongue and turn on the sink, letting the cool water run over my hands. I wait until it warms up to splash some over my face. Instantly, I feel a little better. Some of the anxiety drains out of me and I feel as though a weight has lifted. I can only imagine the good a hot shower would do.

The thought makes me yearn for a comfortable hotel room. After all this traveling, I'm jetlagged, tired and very hungry, and this John Blake character is not making circumstances any better by dragging out what has turned out to be a very frustrating discussion. I know he means well. He seems, on first impression basis alone, to be a man of good intentions. His secrecy is a strange trait, but one that can be expected of the _fuzz_. I can only assume this – he's the first police officer I've ever met.

Reaching for the towel, I first inspect its state in terms of hygiene. Fresh as a summer daisy, not an unsightly spot to be found. It really is bizarre to meet a single man with a proclivity for neatness.

I towel my face dry and fold it back up, putting it back exactly where I'd found it.

Looking back in the mirror one last time, I sigh and try to straighten my shoulders, but they just seem to slump forward of their own accord.

"What _have_ you gotten me into, father?"

Blake is waiting on me. I really should return before he suspects me of mischief.

* * *

a/n: i just couldn't wait to write part two. hope you guys like it!

disclaimer - i don't own john blake _or _julia remarque. he belongs to nolan and dc comics.


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